Creative Shiting

I wrote a story this afternoon when I had nothing better to do. It was a bit stream of consciousness and is nowhere near perfect but it's developing something I kind of want to build on anyway:

Tim looked at the grass curling up between his toes. It was long and spindly and he liked it. He liked the way it felt on his bare soles. He patted the ground next to him affectionately as if it was a dog. He patted the grass like a good dog. Next to him Charlotte snorted laughter through her nose. Charlotte liked to snort through her nose. It was like, “her thing”. It was a pretty weird “thing” to have if you asked Tim, but then Charlotte was a pretty weird “her” to be, so it was probably alright.

Tim wondered in what case it wouldn’t be alright. In what case would having a weird thing be unacceptable? Going on prior logic having a weird thing was alright if you’re weird so then having a weird thing must be wrong if you’re not weird. But wouldn’t having a weird thing make you weird by definition? Only if the definition of being weird is having weird things and he was pretty sure that wasn’t right.

Charlotte patted the ground in imitation of Tim, “Sure is soft here.” She said, “Like a cloud or a… really soft thing.” Tim looked at her imagining how he would describe her if he was writing her into a book. Well, she had (still has) brown hair and it is/was a decent length, which is lucky because indecent hair is widely acknowledged as abhorrent. Her eyes were big, like real, real big and also heaps blue. Not blue like the sky or like the ocean or like any blue on the colour wheel, but heaps blue, like only eyes can be.

“Best climb on that pony boy and ride, like you ain’t never done.” Charlotte sang, interrupting Tim’s mental description. “That’s a double negative,” Tim said, “not good use of grammar there.” Charlotte narrowed her eyes at Tim, “I didn’t write the song, I just sing it.” Tim watched her lips as she spoke, they were just lips nothing special. Did that really matter? Did lips have to be special? Some did/do. She wasn’t too fat to enjoy looking at but she wasn’t too skinny to enjoy hugging. She wasn’t just right either because honestly is there such a thing as just right? Does anybody look great and feel great? Even if they did/do Charlotte didn’t (still doesn’t).

Charlotte rolled over in the grass onto her back her bare feet playfully kicking Tim in the stomach. “If you were writing a book, how would you describe me?” Tim asked. Charlotte rolled back onto her stomach and took hold of Tim’s face with her hands. She looked at his mouth carefully and folded back each ear to look behind. She ruffled his hair and tweaked his nose. Last of all she looked in his eyes and said, “Scrappy.”

Tim looked back into her eyes, her heaps blue eyes. They were real big eyes. He waited but she didn’t say anything else. “That’s it? I’m just scrappy?” Charlotte rolled away giggling. “I’m not finished, you didn’t let me finish.” Tim grabbed her under each arms and began tickling her with unlimited viciousness. Seriously there was no limit to the viciousness of his tickling. Some things should be against the law but aren’t this level of viciousness even when applied to tickling is just unkind. Charlotte was laughing and gasping and snorting and rolling. She tried to yell but had no breath because seriously? Vicious. “You’re not just scrappy.” She yelled through tears and guffaws. “Really?” Tim paused tickling momentarily, “What else am I?” Charlotte looked over her shoulder at him, “You’re unkempt.” She was daring him to tickle her some more. What a masochist?!

“I prefer dashing.” Tim retorted. He kept his hands to himself now. He enjoyed tickling her as much she enjoyed being tickled. What a sadist?! “You would.” Charlotte quipped back. She was short and cute, rolling in the grass in her baggy pants and singlet, but not too cute. Her face was just cute enough, normally. When she smiled it was too cute. Tim couldn’t take it. He just died. Every time she smiled. He died. It was hard work, all that dying. But he enjoyed it and she enjoyed it so it was effort well spent, yeah? Yeah. That’s what Tim thought. What else did Tim thought? Tim thought Charlotte had nice feet. They were small and normal which is probably all they need to be. If you don’t have ugly feet you have nice feet. Tim had ugly feet big and long and a little hairy, especially the toes. Hairy like a hobbit.

Charlotte snorted angrily. Tim wasn’t paying her attention. Talk about rude! Tim rolled next to Charlotte and picked her up in his arms. “You’re right, it’s pretty soft here.” Charlotte squealed as Tim squeezed her in his arms. “Stop! You’re gonna pop me! Stooooop!” Tim laughed as Charlotte squealed some more. Definitely a sadist. “If I was writing a book, you’d be a villain.” Charlotte squirmed her way out of Tim’s arms. “You’d capture little girls and eat them.” Tim gave Charlotte a serious look “But I already do that.” He grabbed one of her hands and pushed her fingers close to his mouth. “I’ve just been fattening you up to eat you” Charlotte pushed him away, the hand he grabbed pushed against his face. “You’ve been doing a crap job of it.”

They tussled some more but in the end Tim stood up and dusted off his clothes. He looked down at Charlotte and died again. Oops. He caught Charlotte’s hand and hoisted her up to her feet. “C’mon kiddo, time to go.” Charlotte frowned, “Already? But we just got here.” Tim smiled and bent to kiss her cheek. “Yeah I know, we just got here two hours ago, and now it’s time to go.” Charlotte grumped in Tim’s arms as he hugged her “Life’s rough.” She said in imitation of Tim. “Sure is.” He replied. Charlotte’s mother had just arrived in her car. “I’ll see you next week, ok?”

“Sure thing.” She said. She kissed his cheek. “See you then.”

Word count: 1,023

At least I'm starting to write again. That's something to be happy about. I think I'll write something more tomorrow as well if I remember.